THE SIXTEENTH MAN
Thomas B. Sawyer
All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2000 Thomas B. Sawyer
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.
Kindle edition published by Tom Sawyer Productions, Inc.
ISBN: 0-595-14544-2
For Holly, and my parents.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to the immensely friendly and helpful people at the Moab Area Chamber of Commerce, the Moab Public Library, and at the Grand County Courthouse; Tony Cho; Dean Mortenson of Lubbock International Airport; the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association, and the magic of the World Wide Web and Microsoft Word. And special thanks to Dr. Tom Wake of the UCLA Bone Lab for his inventive suggestions, Bruce Lockwood for being there, Susan Isaacs for showing me how to tell my story, and most of all to Holly, for bearing with my eccentricities, chasing down disparate scraps of arcana, and serving – as always – as muse, listener, critic extraordinaire – and friend.
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
ONE
Present Time
Sunday
It wasn’t like they said. It wasn’t his entire life flashing before his eyes. Only the parts he was pissed off about.
Packard never saw the rut. Not especially deep, it was just enough to sharply turn the Suzuki’s front wheel, nearly ripping the handlebars from his grip. The spring-compression and sidewise movement caused the engine skid-plate to strike a rock, propelling the bike upward at an abrupt angle. Worse, it pushed him to the back end of the saddle, his weight behind the rear axle. Not a good place to be.
He looked over his right shoulder and saw nothing but space between himself and the creek a hundred and fifty feet below.
The front wheel kept rising till it was out of the dust, aimed at the sky, and then arced past vertical. Somehow, Packard was still astride the machine – but upside down as the Suzuki continued its backward somersault. The wheel hit hard near the edge of the narrow path, then bounced, finally jarring Packard’s hands loose from the grips. The bike would have fallen on him, but as he hit the ground the back wheel struck a surface on the bluffside of the trail. The impact – plus the spin of the cleated tire – saved Packard’s life, catapulting the bike out of its trajectory. It shot out over the precipice, clattered down, down into Muleshoe Canyon.
Packard blinked, disoriented, then lay still, on his back for more than a minute, wary of what movement might tell him about the extent of his injuries. When he opened his eyes, a Coopers Hawk was circling on a thermal, wings motionless except for little adjustments of his black tip-feathers. Packard wondered how the bird knew to do that. It glided into shadow, then out, owner of the cloudless sky.
Jesus, they were right. This was insanity.
But man, what a rush...
He began to cautiously rearrange his parts. Testing. The pain in his left wrist was sudden and sharp – but it quickly subsided when he took pressure off of it. He decided it wasn’t broken. A sore ankle. Neck stiff. He propped himself, half-sitting, against the canyon wall, carefully removed his gloves. Bent his fingers. They felt thick. His hands were red, adrenaline-flushed. His face felt the same. Hot. He unfastened his chinstrap, carefully, slowly removed his helmet. He wiped a trickle of blood from a small cut above his left eye. To his amazement, that was about the extent of it.
His first ride if you didn’t count a couple of practice climbs on borrowed bikes. Packard was glad he’d waited till he had the run to himself, till the kid-bikers finished and cleared out. Despite their show of support and encouragement, he’d been afraid he might make a fool of himself. Justifiably, as it turned out. He knew he had no business playing their game. But he needed it. Especially after Felix’s phone call that morning.
Packard flexed his neck. And noticed the black tire-mark slashed across the big arch-shaped boulder a few yards up-trail.
Weeks ago, soon after Packard and his three eager graduate-assistants set up camp and started the dig, he began hanging with the bikers on Saturdays and Sundays, watching, questioning them, comparing machines, their techniques. He admired their daring – envied that gift of youth – unquestioned belief in their own immortality. And somewhat to his dismay, contemplated taking a shot at it himself.
Neither Scott Herren nor Jeff Fischer liked the idea, regarding it as too dangerous. They pointed to bad falls and major injuries among even experienced riders. Only doctoral candidate Megan Brady urged him to go for it. Which he attributed at least in part to her hero-worshipping crush on him. Though he liked Meg enormously, her energy and enthusiasm – and hell, the way she looked, from the beginning he’d made it clear it wasn’t going anywhere, he had all the relationship complications he could handle at the moment, thank you.
As Packard’s fascination with equipment-subtleties and gear-changing nuances grew, as he started mooching an occasional ride, Leslie Goldman became more and more vocal – no, “irritating” described it better – accusing him, on good days, of being out of his mind. He’d tried to take the positive view, that she was truly concerned for his safety.
Then, yesterday when he prepared to depart Borrego Junction for the dig-site with his new bike, boots, leathers, flak-jacket and the rest of the nine yards, Leslie really piled on. Harangued him that this was total, unmitigated bullshit, an activity for children, out-and-out crazies and/or adrenaline-junkies. Not for a 30 year-old intellectual with a couple of doctorates and a life.
Packard chose not to argue. About the bike – or their differing definitions of ‘a life.’ Which made her even angrier. Leslie said there was “no fucking way in the world” she’d watch him commit suicide, climbed into her car, headed for her office.
Packard glanced at the big wind-etched rock again. Something was different. Besides the tire-mark.
It was more and more difficult to remember the beginning – the good times with Leslie. Their relationship had always been complex, made moreso by the dynamic between them and her father. Eminent, overbearing, Professor Felix William Goldman was his mentor, and to Leslie, often her tormenter. For a long time things had been slowly unraveling for Leslie and himself. Then recently, the process had accelerated. Packard suspected his reluctance to end it was largely due to his abhorrence of failure. As if romantic relationships, like one’s profession, were something you had to succeed at, no matter what. And especially so since his career had become so unfulfilling. He also understood that he wasn’t the same person he’d been when he met Leslie. That the changes he was going through were making them less compatible.
Using the rock wall for support, Packard stood up, a touch unsteady at first. The trail at this point was less than four feet wide. His mangled bike was visible far below. Then his eyes returned to the rock.
That’s what it is. The damn thing has moved.
Somewhat stiffly at first, he limped up the slope towa
rd the arch-shaped boulder.
Felix’s call that morning had been a killer for all of them. The phone rang as Packard was pouring his first coffee in the motor-home that served as dig-site headquarters. “Matthew...” Goldman paused, then continued in that peculiar rabbinical cadence of his, as if everything was a sound bite from Mount Sinai, “...We’re shutting down your field study. Effective immediately.” He cited budget pressure from the Regents, results insufficient to justify the continued expense. “Great regret” was as close as he came to commiseration. The call lasted no more than a minute.
Felix’s abruptness, the lack of a preamble, a semblance of a discussion – none of it surprised Packard. Including the call itself. He had been expecting it for the past week or so – though to maintain morale he’d said nothing to the others.
Bullshit.
It was about protecting his own spirits.
Meg and the others were outraged, bitter. As was Packard who, leader-style, and with much effort, held most of it in. His most visible concession to his anger was the decision to scrub the hill-climb. But Meg, joined by Jeff and Scott who by then had grudgingly come around, argued that he should have his what-the-hell adventure, that their weeks of hard work ought to result in at least a few thrills. Packard agreed – conditionally: he would attempt his run after they departed for Borrego Junction. Which resulted in another argument. They wanted to be there – as a cheering section and if need be his rescuers. But Packard prevailed. So, following breakfast they pitched in, loaded the van with as much as it could hold – and headed back over the mountains, planning to return in the morning for final cleanup. What all of them understood was that Packard especially did not want them to watch him make a fool of himself. Like them, he knew it was vain. And childish and a lot of other things beyond the obvious that he should get around to examining. Eventually.
Now, bruised, aching, but oddly stimulated by his flirtation with death, Packard was finally allowing himself to feel his anger, his frustration. He was fairly certain there was more to it than just the expense as Goldman claimed. Like the dating of last week’s charcoal samples. Rudy Sanchez had promised to keep the results to himself, to let Packard lay them on Goldman face-to-face, but who knew – maybe the old man had found them.
Packard and the others had traversed this trail dozens of times over the past six weeks. Past the distinctively shaped hunk of sandstone which had been nothing more than a part of the landscape. But now, there was a tiny space between this big rock and the cliff behind it. A few inches of clearance that hadn’t been there before, apparently caused by the bike’s impact. And back there behind the boulder was a dark place at the base of the cliff-wall. Darker than just shadow? Packard moved around the rock, to the up-slope side where the separation was marginally wider, where he could see it more clearly.
Yes!
He almost didn’t notice the pain from his knee as he knelt and peered in, and down, pressing his left temple against the boulder. He blinked, unsure of what he was seeing in the dying light. In the hole that was now partially exposed. Shapes, beneath a multi-layered veil of dusty spiderwebs.
Jesus.
Packard could feel his already rapid heartbeat speeding up. He stood. The setting sun had thrown this part of the canyon into bluish shadow. He squinted at the sharp-edged, vivid oranges and ochres of the opposite wall fifty yards away. Far below, Muleshoe creek rushed noisily beneath the two-lane road and out into the Colorado River. Packard took a deep breath.
Fuck Felix’s edict.
He started up the trail, moving faster than his bruised ankles wanted him to. Unsure that he’d find what he needed, he already had a B-plan. Earlier, they had dismantled and removed everything except a few cabinets, ground-cloths and tent-canopy, the poles of which he knew were too flimsy for his purposes. Arriving at the motor-home, he quickly ascertained, as expected, that the stout piece of lumber he’d hoped for was nowhere to be found. Instead, he located the wrench and a flashlight, went to work. Minutes later he headed down-trail, lugging the long, tubular awning supports he’d removed from the side of the motor-home and hastily bound together with the tent-canopy ropes.
Knowing that if the tubing bent, it would become useless as a lever, Packard applied a short grip and as much strength as he could muster to gradually pry the arch-shaped boulder away from the opening. After each tiny, incremental move, he carefully re-set the tubes. Finally, however, he miscalculated. The aluminum suddenly crimped, bending at a steep angle. Packard lost his grip, fell on his already-sore shoulder. Angry, he pulled himself up – and was buoyed. He had moved the rock far enough. Just.
Apprehensive, he pointed the light into the opening, quickly shut it off, nearly stumbled as he hurried down the trail to the mouth of the canyon where he’d left his Cherokee and bike-trailer. Enroute, trying to suppress his excitement, he tore off his flak jacket, discarded his shoulder pads and shin guards. From the Jeep, he gathered climbing harness, several coils of rope, a backpack, the fluorescent light which fortunately the kids hadn’t taken back to Borrego Junction, and the large fishing-tackle box that was his kit. The last sunlight was glancing off the sheer sandstone cliffs on the far side of the river as he struggled back up the steep, gravel-slippery trail with his bulky load. Ignoring the need to catch his breath, he talked to himself. First about the irony – that his inward-turned rage, this potentially self-destructive itch that had driven him to risk dirt-biking just might turn out to be the reason for the Muleshoe dig’s ultimate success.
He quickly amended that one.
Packard, get real. Those bones in there – you don’t know that they’re human. And if they are, they’re not necessarily old. Hell, this is probably nothing more than the burial site of – of some western pioneers – poor schleps who came through here 150 years ago and got lost, or died of dysentery or cholera. Or Indians who roamed the La Sal Mountains back then. Or at best another Anasazi site forgodsake. The area’s full of them. Interesting, certainly, but rarely significant anymore. Almost certainly not what those three stone flake-tools suggested – the ones he and Leslie discovered months ago. Or the few similar specimens he and the kids had unearthed over the past few weeks. Besides, hadn’t Goldman cautioned from the getgo that he was reading too much into them? And anyway, the chance of finding anything – especially in this area of Utah just north of Four Corners – that hadn’t been vandalized, unintentionally defaced or otherwise compromised was about one in twenty or thirty million. A lot of frustration and disappointment – till they found the charcoal.
Beyond their design features, primitive stone tools were undateable. And the shapes of the ones he and Leslie had come across were – to say the least – highly unusual for this part of the world. Moreover, an intuitive almost divining-rod feeling in the soles of Packard’s feet when he walked that terrain convinced him that something – the elusive “it” – had to be there, somewhere in the area. To his surprise, the prospect was restoking – if not fully restoring – his interest, which over the past year or two had diminished to the point of convincing him he needed a career change. A need that had lately begun to feel urgent.
His excitement cheered Leslie who, to Packard’s annoyance, dismissed his restlessness as merely a passing aberration they would both eventually reflect upon with amusement. On the other hand, she took it seriously enough to withhold mention of his problem to her father, counseling Packard to keep it to himself as well.
He understood that his and Leslie’s relationship figured heavily in the Old Man’s decision, despite his skepticism, to authorize the dig. And truth-be-told Packard had been so stimulated by the possibilities that he almost didn’t mind trading on the leverage. Later, he began to see that there might be something more to Goldman’s reticence.
As a young teenager, Packard had read about Dr. Felix William Goldman’s exploits in the National Geographic, seen his name there for as long as he could remember. The Kadiri find in Indonesia, the Qezetalan dig in Peru. To finally have
the opportunity to work with the man was a Big Deal. But over time the awe, the respect were gradually – and predictably – eroded by familiarity, and Goldman’s Colorado-sized ego.
The eastern sky was displaying its first few stars as Packard fired up the battery-powered fluorescent lamp he had attached to his rope. Eyes still adjusting to the bluish glare, he squeezed through the opening, braced his boots against the sidewalls, lowered himself about six feet into the shaft. His Nikon hung from his neck, a kit-bag slung over his non-tender shoulder. He peered into the moving light-and-shadow patterns cast by the swaying lantern.
“Okay, I---” In his growing exhilaration he’d forgotten to punch the record button of the small tape-recorder he’d stuffed into his breast pocket. He switched it on. “Okay, I’m in what appears to be an old, naturally-formed rock-fissure. Sandstone. Beautifully colored, slightly crossbedded...” He snapped a flash-picture. “...A triangular, more-or-less vertical shaft approximately one and one-half to oh two and a half meters across. Just below me, about four meters down from the opening – there appear to be a number of bones and bone-fragments, half-obscured by spiderwebs and dust. Several skull parts. Crania. Jawbones. They appear to be homo sapiens.” He pressed pause, lowered himself further.
This was the good part, the reason he’d gone into archaeology in the first place – well, part of the reason, anyway.
Trouble was, the Indiana Jones stuff amounted to maybe a tenth of one percent of it. The rest consisted of trying to keep disinterested students entertained, endless comparison and cataloguing of redundant specimens, few of which ever turned out to be significant – and worst of all, playing academic politics, a game for which, Leslie loved to remind him, he had the talent – but unfortunately not the requisite fire in the belly. Packard doubted the former, acknowledged the latter; he just wasn’t a believer. He regarded it as bullshit. Leslie accused him of being a prisoner of his “childish, idealistic attitudes.” He admitted to that as well – mostly to avoid what had become for him a tiresome, circular, no-win argument.
The Sixteenth Man Page 1